


Gang kori

by dxp



Category: The Expanse (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Minor Jim Holden/Naomi Nagata, Unrequited Love, and back again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24776128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dxp/pseuds/dxp
Summary: “You’re a romantic,” you say, “and the Behemoth isn’t building your garden.”Naomi and Drummer on Tycho, and on the Behemoth.
Relationships: Camina Drummer/Naomi Nagata
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	Gang kori

**Author's Note:**

> The 'belter language' is pretty sparse and hopefully readable from context. I've repeated sentiments, where they were necessary. It was fun to try. 
> 
> 'Gang kori' is the only thing that I guess needs explaining, although they are both 'official' belter words. It's supposed to imply, 'a heart's journey,' or something equally sentimental 
> 
> I know we are between seasons and that this is a whole season back but... if anyone is here, hi, I love them

First time you drink together, you’re fresh from the game, palm stinging, nothing in your stomach. 

“You had belta though?” you ask, blinking sweaty film from your eyes. “Before.” You know the woman tending the slick bar, and she skims fresh drinks to you, her painted eyebrows judgemental. You narrow the eye Naomi can’t see in response. 

“Before what?” Naomi is already laughing. She holds up the drinks. 

You say, “Yam seng,” but she’s already swallowing. Catching the spill with the heel of her hand. “Before your Rocinante. Before who-do-you-think.” 

“Yes,” says Naomi, ginning wide but sweet. “Many belta.” Her words trip more acutely Belt the more she drinks. You take her glass and slide it back across the bar. Make determined eye contact with the bartender, who has never spoken to you alone but knows all your business anyway. You say, “So is it true what they say?”

“About me?” Naomi is delighted; the bartender less so. “What do they say about me?”

“About _earthers,_ ” you say, careful to meet Naomi in her language. 

“Drummer!” Nothing can dampen her smile tonight. She has her sweaty hip hooked against a bar stool, and she lifts each new drink immediately. She hasn’t said what rock she’s from, but she’s been talking about the boyfriend. In love. _Gangkori._ You haven’t been discouraging it. 

“Really throw you about,” you say, turned to watch Naomi’s mouth open around mock outrage. “Bigger thighs. Bigger-.” 

“No!” says Naomi, grabbing your wrist.

“-arms,” you finish. 

“It isn’t like that,” she says. You wait expectantly. “It’s not different,” she says. 

“Fine. Keep you secrets, amash, sesata, dansa wit me, ya?”

“Soyá,” says Naomi, whine in her voice, already reaching for you. “Of course.” 

You tow her backwards through the crowd, until it feels like you are somewhere bigger that this Tycho hole, bigger than the Behemoth will be, pressed in with all the writhing bodies of the belt. Neither of you know yet, that the music is Eros dying. You dance until the gravity clings to you. Until you wish you could be back in your hard fought for cabin, turning the gravity _off_. 

You put an arm over Naomi’s winding shoulders to keep yourself up. To keep yourself down without boots. 

“Your paint’s gone,” Naomi shouts, and for a moment you think she’s going to buff your cheek with the clutched corner of her sleeve. You jerk your head out of reach. “Sorry,” she says, white-eyed, “Shit.”

“Pashang,” you say, tugging her hands into yours and raising them up above your head. “Don’t apologise. Na da nax xiya.” 

The next distinct track is just some kid screaming. Old style. Kind of thing Fred listened to back in the day, trying to learn like he belonged. _Du push. Push._ The worst bullshit. Makes you feel old for feeling young.

But Naomi says, “I remember this!” Push. Jump. You ride up with the crowd, shove back, held up by the packed floor. It’s no great art, but when it’s finished, Naomi twists about in the circle of your arms, in the sudden space and weight where the crowd is loosened. Her slight chest is heaving and her sweaty skin is backlit up with a happiness so bright it’s a constant through the strobing lights. You tip, together, exhausted legs, and sharp shoulders behind you, keeping you up. Some laughing child, taller than Naomi rights her with slippery hands. Naomi turns again, immediate. Leans in and shouts. “I forgot.”

It’s easy to forget to enjoy the Belt. Liking is not what the Belt expects. You put your tired neck back into your own arms and sway through a song about doomed love and a different solar system, until the drink is only in your fingers. 

“Maybe it’s different,” says Naomi, back over the bar. Softer now. “When he’s-.“ She flutters away again, laughing big and embarrassed.

“Don’t want to know about _his_ dick,” you say, with exaggerated disgust. “General question.” Naomi laughs again, tugging you back out into the the relative quiet of the concourse. Third shift no longer in full swing, breakfast drinking, early risers passing you fast, heads in terminals. The throb of music clings to you both until round the corner, and spill into an empty lift.

“Don’t repeat this,” Naomi whispers, pressed close but not touching .Vibrating at having someone to take into her confidence. You make the sign for secrets; the signs for closing coms. You shut the lift door. “There is this weight. The bones. Heavy, when they’re…” She backs away again, sniggering. “I’m so drunk,” she exclaims. “Drummer why are you not drunk.”

“I am very drunk,” you say, truthful. “I listen to you talk about what your boyfriend do wit his hips.” 

“Shut up!” says Naomi, eyes enormous. She reaches for your waist. “Shhh.” You stagger together towards the lift. 

“So good you stick wit inyalowda?” Naomi sobers. _”Earthers,”_ you correct.

“ _Xi_ tumang,” she says. “With _this_ earth _er_. Long as I can.” She falls back against the far side of the lift, and smiles beatifically with her eyes closed.

“Minor docks,” you tell the system, and the lift starts to purr. Should be frictionless. You will need to send someone next shift. There’s just time enough for a shower. 

Naomi’s face is still soft, her now slitted eyes still shiny with love. “Ugh,” you say, “Definitely time to end this, if you are getting so sentimental.” 

“Not sentimental,” says Naomi, as the doors hiss open. _“Hopeful.”_ Her smile is small, and not really for you. She shakes herself out of it. Leans in. Big grin back. She tucks you under her arm and drags you out with her. “What about you,” she says, too loud, with third shift dregs around, “You looking to try?”

“Definitely not,” you say. Then you lean in, breath on her ear so she sniggers, “Stick to Belters. Not get crushed. Long fingers to reach—.” Naomi tries to put a hand over your mouth. 

You give her back to the tumang boyfriend with the heavy hips, the great martyr of the Kant. 

“Stay for a coffee?” he says, hoisting Naomi’s immediately slackened body into his side. She grins at you conspiratorially and digs her chin into his arm until he squirms back. 

“No,” you say. 

The first little while on the Behemoth, you play more than on Tycho, drink less. It’s good to be seen to go hard, not good to be caught slipping. You don’t talk with Naomi about the tumang boyfriend’s hips. 

Four days before you sleep with her, Naomi drops down besides you in the small canteen you have earmarked for conversion into a bar. She says, “I never see you with anyone.” 

“No?” you say, and swipe at your hand terminal. 

“I worry about you,” she says. Inappropriate. You don’t talk about tumang ex-boyfriend’s hips out of respect. You swipe the work that needs to be done away. 

“I am supposed to be captain here,” you point out quietly and you give her your full attention. She’s supposed to be wiring a nation. 

“Oh?” says Naomi, immune to your tone, half sincerity, big-eyed empathy. She pouts, more playful than you’ve seen her, here on your ship. “Tu longtam lonesam, Bosmang Kapawu?” The language is a joke in her mouth.

“Not really,” you say, shortly. She sobers, and then turns a little at the bar, lets you see how tired she is.

“Sorry,” says Naomi, like she needs to apologise, “I just-.” 

“Don’t worry about it. Ta nating.” You add, “Kopeng mi,” to soften it. Soften it too much, probably, because she gets up and goes with you when you leave.

Two days before you sleep with her, Naomi says, “Camina?”

You frown, because Naomi has not been subtle. Just because you are here, done with dancing, with a few weak drinks in your stomach, it does not mean that anything has changed. You slump forward enough to reach her, and push her shoulder gently. 

“Not Camina?” says Naomi, brushing up an old smile. You throw her your most scathing look, and pull her into the dance, into the crowd. Under the ropy arms of the shitty welder responsible for the mess on deck three, nearly colliding with Anderson’s explosives enthusiast, making brief acknowledgement of your chief air filtration tech. 

Out in the crowd you beckon her close. She inclines her head and the hair she is growing out is light against your temple. 

“I’m trying to be the captain,” you say, into her ear. 

Naomi tuts softly, because she doesn’t see it as an issue. Because she just got done fucking her last captain and because she absolutely doesn’t see herself as just another component in the crew, no matter how good her belter talk is suddenly. Those are the reasons you think you will not do it. 

“You are the captain,” she says. You look up at the particularly vulgar painting of Eden on the ceiling of the makeshift hole. Someone has spray painted a quick OPA circle, up high in the sickeningly pastel sky. Must have done it before the crew got the gravity sorted. In the painting there are only two people in the whole world, their faces shiny and plastic in their loneliness. “I’m trying to make this work,” Naomi says.

“This will work,” you say. Or it won’t. 

The day you sleep with her, you play. There’s a big room, designed for religious assemblies, that the crew has left empty for now. You put the ball to the wall. You still win, no space for Naomi to practice on the Roci. Afterwards, you walk on shaking legs out onto a gantry overlooking the drum. 

Naomi slings her arms over the gantry railing, briefly puts her head into them, and says, “Drummer, I’m lonely.” 

“Belta milowda,” you say, looking out over the great grey drum. Who isn’t, who is born into the emptiness of space. Who isn’t, maybe, off on the supposed paradise of earth. 

“Well that’s depressing as fuck,” says Naomi. “Jesus.” 

“‘I’m lonely,’ is a more depressing thing to say, and I’m not trying to get sex.” 

“Okay,” says Naomi. Embarrassment always makes her laugh. “I was just saying.” She pauses. “And we aren’t. Don’t say that. We’re not all lonely.” 

“You weren’t just saying. Other day to pensa pull da Bosmang Kapawu routine like you are new again.” 

She sighs, turns to look out over the drum too.

“They wanted this to be a garden,” she says. “Green all around, up and down. Even the plans are beautiful.” Her expression is very bright. Nothing the Mormons have made is beautiful to you. All their decoration - shipped so expensively across the system - will be layered over soon, but it won’t be torn down. That would be wasteful.

“You would make it like the fanatics wanted? Why? Useful as storage. Maybe we float platforms? Room for ten levels, ya?” If you squint you can see it. The wild metal of the belt rising up, and down, and in, filling the whole space with life. The flip of gravity in the centre, if the crew can work out how to get her spinning. No need for painted open skies, when there is the void one plastic seal away. Naomi is looking at you strangely. “Why?” you say again. Naomi shrugs.

“Who did you try,” she says, “when you pull da routine, ‘Bosmang Kapawu?’”

“Dawes,” you say, simple enough. No need to hide it. You shrug off her concern. “Long time ago,” you say. “It wasn’t even a bad idea, back then.” She blinks at you. You wave her away again. 

“Never Fred?” she says, and it startles you.

“Fuck off,” you say, but you’re laughing. “Don’t speak to me.” She grins and moves in again.

“Sorry,” she says. “It’s just, I like you, and you like me. We hang out all the time. I thought it would be fun. I thought we could both use some fun.” She laughs out the last, exhaustion thinning her voice.

“You’re a romantic,” you say. “And the Behemoth isn’t building your garden.”

“I’m not that romantic,” she says. “Well. Only twice.” Twice is a lot, for one lifetime. 

“Flattered,” you say, a bit too truthful in how sharp you sound, “to be fun, instead.”

Naomi stands with you, quiet, listening to the work in the drum. “I didn’t think you wanted romance.”

“I don’t,” you say, quick. You don’t. You don’t want romance. You really don’t. If an airlock blows, you need to be able to work. 

“I do love you,” she says, with a confidence that sounds like it might slip.

You say, “You are a good friend. Fun friend, even.” You have never told someone you love them. You aren’t going to start now. 

“Why thank you,” says Naomi, smile reappearing. “Who doesn't want to have even more fun?” You turn to her. Confirm to yourself that you can let go. If an airlock blows. Sulk. Drink. Dance. Work. If tumang boyfriend comes crawling after her. Sulk. Drink. Dance. Work. 

“We’re not building a garden. Going to be more belters living in here, than the inners ever imagined.” 

“Okay, captain,” she says. Smiles and shrugs, like it’s really that easy. She edges in slowly, and she leaves it up to you to reach out, to draw her in, to tuck yourself up under her arm. It’s not supposed to be romantic. You don’t think this is romantic. You tip your chin. 

Her kiss is soft. Dry, salt when you open your mouth around her upper lip. You’ve both been playing hard. She backs away laughing. Sweet. Wiping at her face. “Ugh. Sorry. I need to shower. Yeah? See you after second shift?”

“Ya,” you say. Shower. Second shift. Watch the whole ship squirm with life on your com screen. It’s going well. Naomi is making it work, and maybe all of you can. You’re divvying up suites meant for priests to die in. Filling their garden up with scrap. It’s a bigger dream than Dawes ever had. It’s still too small for Naomi. For the belt, maybe it’ll do.

She laughs when you mess with the gravity panel, so you mess with it more. She grins when you tug her hips up and she looses contact with the bed. Bites her curled lips when you open your teeth against all the ink she has on her chest - more than you have, back then - and you drag your mouth from bone to soft breast. 

Her long fingers are confident. Her mouth hot and sucking and sweet between your legs. Her smile slips when you put her up against the ceiling. She’s gorgeous, in a way you don’t let yourself expect. Shaved sides of her head still soft, skin cool, limbs slow and dreaming, extending into the cradling air. 

It becomes, for the few rotations you have it, about that moment when her smile slips. You can get her there every time. 

Then finally, it becomes about the moment she smiles again, once you’ve exhausted both your bodies. Which is when you decide you need to stop. 

She smiles again when there is sweat between your hand and the back of her neck. She smiles at spit beading in the air. She smiles when she flicks the gravity back up, catches a long breath and traces the turn of your hip, chin digging briefly into the sensitive softness of your lower stomach, before she cushions it on her hand. 

With her chin on her fist, she looks up at you and makes the gesture to record information, taping at an imagined helmet. It’s a gesture mostly used to indicate a problem that will need to be referred up the chain. She frames the unflattering image she must have of your sweaty face with her free hand.

“I’m not a busted seal,” you say. 

“But maybe need a little care,” she says. You spread your hand over her face and push, and there’s the laughter. It could become about the laughter.

Looking out over the Behemoth drum, you say, “This has been fun.” She looks up, surprised. She’s been surveying her garden that will never be a garden, so long as you are in charge. “But I need it to stop.” 

“Okay,” she says, concerned. Then, “You sure?” 

“Yes,” you say. You wait to see if she will put up a fight. Not to play games. But to see if it’s contagious, the tug in your heart that’s making this less fun, the longer it goes on. She nods.

“I meant what I said. You’re my friend,” she says. “I love you. To pochuye ke?”

“Mi pochuye, mi kopeng. We’ll still dance. Put a ball to the wall. Drink. Make this place.” She nods again, looking happier. Then she slumps a little. 

“Why?” she says, and it’s nice that she doesn’t know. Gives you time to sulk, drink, dance. Get over it. 

“I’m the captain,” you say. She rolls her eyes, but accepts it.

“Alright,” she says. “But you’ve got this, you know that. No one here says anything about you that isn’t respect.” 

Much later, you let Ashford find you one of his uniforms. Crisp, black. The first new thing you’ve ever worn. _Outer Planets Alliance_ emblazoned on your chest; a little embarrassing in how sincere it is. Very embarrassing at first, when you all wear them together.


End file.
